


A Lesson in Respect

by WhatIsAir



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Everything is actually consensual trust me, Gunplay, M/M, Mild BDSM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 18:44:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1828373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatIsAir/pseuds/WhatIsAir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's had enough of Sherlock insulting people left right and centre and takes it upon himself to teach the detective a lesson. Sexy times ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lesson in Respect

**Author's Note:**

> Do heed the warnings in the tags.

Apologizing didn’t come easily to Sherlock. Neither did social interaction. Offending people, however, came more naturally to him than breathing. He insulted people all the time, sometimes without meaning to, sometimes picking his words with full intention to wound. Uttering a scathing comment was as much a reflex action to him as breathing, albeit infinitely more interesting because of how the people he insulted would react.

It was just such an easy thing to do, especially when taken into consideration that the majority of the populace were unmitigated idiots, which made it altogether extremely hard not to insult them in some manner or other.

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath and opened his eyes to find John, Lestrade and Anderson all staring expectantly at him. He gritted his teeth in a concerted effort not to yell at Lestrade for being a bore and a complete waste of time because – 

“It’s blindingly obvious how Jenkins died, isn’t it?” he snapped, unable to quell an irritated eye-roll at the incompetence of the Metropolitan police, “Seeing as how both the door and window were locked from the inside, that just leaves the fireplace, which has an unnaturally wide shaft large enough for a very slim person or perhaps a child to climb down. There’s no obvious wound that caused his death but we know he died of asphyxiation – a person of such a small stature wouldn’t have been able to overpower Jenkins, so a drug of some kind must have been administered which stopped his blood flow so he gradually suffocated. Once you’ve had the body examined you’ll find a small puncture wound somewhere on his person – no doubt the murderer got the poison into his system with a dart, so you’re looking for someone small, athletic and an extremely expert shooter, given how far Jenkins was from the fireplace when he died.”

“That’s brilliant!” was John’s helpful contribution, as Lestrade began to say “Thank –”

But Sherlock wasn’t done. Not by far. He had had enough. “I’ll have you know I am not a show-dog, Lestrade, hear to entertain your every whim and dance whenever you tell me to,” he hissed, feeling his blood boil at the indignity of being summoned to a case that turned out to be child’s play. “We have an agreement, Detective Inspector – you give me cases that are challenging, and I’ll help you with them. I don’t get paid for them because the work is payment enough, but lately I’ve noticed that you call me up for cases so mundane I could have solved them in my sleep –”

“Sherlock,” John said warningly, but the detective ploughed on relentlessly, seemingly intent on tearing apart the whole of Lestrade’s team with words alone.

“– Why do you think I solve cases for you, Lestrade? Do you think I care about these people and their petty lives? I do it because the Work is interesting and fun and it keeps me distracted for long enough that I stop thinking about how good shooting up feels. These people who have died? I don’t care about them, not unless they’ve died by the hands of a serial killer – at least with those, I’ll have someone with a level of intellect I can relate to! So next time you and your incompetent team of dogs decide a case is ‘too hard’ for you, I would appreciate it if you at least tried to solve it before calling me here and wasting my time.”

With that, Sherlock spun around and stalked out of the room, his coat billowing dramatically behind him, leaving a fuming Lestrade and a flabbergasted Anderson behind. 

The role of mediator once more falling upon him, John sighed and stepped forwards. “Look, Greg, I’m sorry about –” he began, but Lestrade waved him off.

“It’s alright – I know how he gets,” the DI muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration, “He’s always been like that. He was better after he met you, but for the past couple of weeks I swear he’s getting as bad as when I first met him.”

“Is he?” John mused, “Interesting.”

xxx x xxx  
“You didn’t have to do that, Sherlock!” John yelled from where he stood in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil.

It was five days after what John had come to call The Unsatisfying (to Sherlock) Jenkins Case, and Lestrade hadn’t called since. Sherlock had been growing increasingly impatient and on edge, to the point where he had adorned their wall with a whole new round of bullets. There was now a bullet-holed frowny face to match the graffitied smiley one on the wall behind the sofa. 

“It was for her own good, John!” Sherlock yelled back from somewhere in the vicinity of the living room.

Tea forgotten, John went into the living room to find the detective casually reclining on the sofa, suit jacket and shoes still on.

“For her own good?” he said incredulously, “Sherlock, telling someone to stop smoking is for their own good. Telling someone to stay off drugs is for their own good. Telling Molly the guy she’s been dating for months will only stay with her until she lets him fuck her does not fall anywhere within the region of ‘for her own good’.”

The detective glanced at John out of the corner of his eye, not even bothering to turn his head. “But it is true. That’s just what he does – it’s all about sex to him. He’s done that to the last seventeen women he’s dated. He has sex with them and moves on.”

“Well, what if he’s changed? Have you ever thought about that?” John snapped back, almost at his wit’s end, “People are capable of change, Sherlock. Maybe Molly’s the first woman he’s ever had serious feelings for. And anyway, it wasn’t your place to tell her.”

Sherlock snorted, closed his eyes and flung an arm over his face as if he found John’s words annoying. Which, John supposed, he probably did. “I was just saving her the inevitable heartbreak when she finds out all she’s good for in her so-called boyfriend’s eyes is a good hard fuck before he moves on to his next conquest.”

Sherlock had hardly managed to get the words out before he abruptly found himself on his back on the living room floor, and a furious John Watson crouched over him, pinning Sherlock’s wrists to the floor in a grip so tight he could almost swear he felt the bones grinding together. Sherlock winced and attempted to pull himself free, but John merely tightened his hold, stilling Sherlock in place with a steely glare.

John leaned down, so close Sherlock could feel John’s breath on his cheek with the doctor’s every exhale as he spoke into his ear. “I think what you need is someone to teach you a thing or two about respect, because from what I’ve seen, you either haven’t been taught or you just haven’t learnt your lesson.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, indignant protest on his lips, but was cut short as John brought his lips crashing down onto the detective’s conveniently parted mouth. Sherlock yelped and redoubled his efforts to escape, but John was having none of it. He let go of one of Sherlock’s wrists, relocating his arm so the length of his forearm was pressing rather insistently against Sherlock’s windpipe with just enough pressure that the detective recognized the danger in struggling and went limp beneath John, levelling a glare at the doctor as he did so.

“Very good,” John murmured approvingly, and proceeded to lick a stripe up along the side of Sherlock’s jaw, causing the detective’s eyes to widen and his breathing to quicken. John grinned almost wolfishly at the look of mingled confusion and anger on Sherlock’s face, even as he could feel Sherlock’s pulse begin beating faster, an erratically fluttering rhythm against his arm. “Let’s try this again then, shall we?”

When John kissed him the second time, Sherlock allowed it, his lips parting willingly at the first touch of John’s tongue. Emboldened, John let his hold on the detective loosen in favour of sliding his hands under Sherlock’s jacket, intent on ridding him of the garment. Hands free and no longer in danger of having his windpipe crushed, Sherlock chose that moment to buck up and wriggle free of John’s grasp.

He hadn’t gotten far, however, before John reacted with the lightning reflexes borne of his soldier days, and caught him, easily flipping Sherlock onto his front and straddling his waist so the detective would have less leverage to escape. 

Sherlock’s breathing was coming in shallow pants as he craned his head to meet John’s eyes. “John – what are you –”

John laughed, a harsh, short bark of a laugh that Sherlock hadn’t ever thought the army doctor was capable of producing. “If you haven’t figured out what I intend to do by now, Sherlock, you might have to reconsider how suited for a consulting detective you are.”

Without giving Sherlock time to respond, John quickly undid his own belt, pulling the leather free from its buckle with a sharp snap. John felt Sherlock’s spine stiffen at the sound, and the implications it brought. When he first pulled Sherlock’s arms behind his back, he was met with more resistance: Sherlock’s long limbs flailing as he put strength from his whole body into trying to buck John off his back.

John figured he had had enough.

Digging a knee firmly into the small of Sherlock’s back, he used the hand not holding the belt to yank Sherlock up by his hair, causing the detective to bend at a rather awkward angle.

“I know you’ve been bored, Sherlock,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “I know what you do when you’re bored is to lash out at the nearest available targets. The fact that I know doesn’t mean it’s okay, because you end up hurting people. My friends, people I care about. I think it’s time you learnt how to deal with the boredom.”

His muscles screaming from the strain of the position John had forced him into, Sherlock nevertheless attempted an indignant response. “I’m fine – don’t need your help – John – go away.”

John smirked. “Oh, I don’t think so. We’re only just getting started.”

Releasing his punishing grip on Sherlock’s hair, John swiftly got to work binding the detective’s wrists behind his back with his belt as Sherlock used the chance to gulp in some much-needed oxygen. Satisfied that the detective would be unable to free himself, John carefully eased his weight off and used his grip on the man’s hair to tug Sherlock into a kneeling position.

He stood up, then, still keeping a firm grip on Sherlock’s hair as he did so. “I really wouldn’t recommend you do that,” he sighed, as Sherlock shifted into what would be an ideal position to kick John’s feet out from under him.

“Do what, John?” Sherlock asked, turning wide, guileless eyes on him that John didn’t for a second believe.

“Right. Seeing as how you still clearly have issues when it comes to respecting people,” said John, and Sherlock didn’t miss the sharp glint in his eye as he continued, “Why don’t we try this a bit differently then?”

John reached into the inner pocket of his coat and withdrew from it his Sig. He didn’t miss the way Sherlock’s eyes widened, nor the way his spine became a rigid, long line of tension. He simply smiled, pressed the gun to the tender underside of Sherlock’s jaw and flicked the safety off.

“Just so you know, it’s loaded,” he casually informed the detective, whom he suspected was now entering the first stages of extreme hyperventilation, judging from the rapid succession with which his chest rose and fell with every breath.

“John, I –” 

“Shut up,” he snapped, jabbing the muzzle of the gun harder into Sherlock’s neck, causing the detective to wince in discomfort. “It’s not your place to talk. This is how we’re going to do it – I’ll tell you what to do and you will do as I say. Otherwise, well.” He dug the gun into the soft flesh of Sherlock’s neck harder to emphasize his point.

He waited until Sherlock slowly nodded before easing up on his hold on the gun, though he still kept it loosely trained on him. “Unzip my pants.”

“But my hands –”

“Improvise,” John cut in harshly, delivering a blow to the side of Sherlock’s face with the Sig, and whipping his face to side from the force of the impact. Sherlock gasped, obviously not expecting it, and as he turned to look up at him, John could clearly see the dilated pupils eclipsing the cobalt blue of Sherlock’s irises, the red flush standing out in stark contrast to Sherlock’s alabaster skin.

John laughed, a cold, emotionless sound. “You really have no sense of propriety, do you? Sergeant Donovan warned me, you know. Warned me that this is the kind of thing you get off on. I didn’t believe her, not really. Not until now.”

With a smirk, John used the gun to trace a path from Sherlock’s neck, down his torso, before circling and coming to rest on the front of his pants, where there was already a growing bulge.

“You really are sick, you know,” John said, rather conversationally, bringing the gun back up so its muzzle rested against the dip between Sherlock’s collarbones, while using his other hand to unbutton and unzip his pants.

Sherlock said nothing, instead leaning forward despite the gun at his throat and, after nudging John’s hand out of the way, used his teeth to unzip John’s pants, trying to get at the doctor’s straining erection. John tsked, shoving Sherlock back as he turned trained the gun on the detective’s temple instead.

“Did I say you could suck me off?” he demanded, eyes flashing with unbridled anger as he glared down at Sherlock.

“Well? Did I?” John asked, voice dangerously low, as he slapped Sherlock with his free hand.

A red handprint forming on his pale cheek, Sherlock addressed John’s knees when he next spoke. “No,” he muttered mutinously, glaring down at the vicinity of the floor.

“No, what?” John snapped, his irritation rising at the detective’s abject stubbornness, pressing the gun harder against Sherlock’s temple to emphasize his point. 

And because Sherlock wasn’t the world’s only consulting detective for nothing, the man figured out what he wanted quickly enough.

“No, sir,” Sherlock mumbled, looking as though speaking the words caused him physical pain and still studiously avoiding John’s eyes.

“What was that, Sherlock?” John asked, raising an eyebrow, “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“No, sir,” the detective repeated, louder this time, although he was still addressing the area between John’s knees and the floor.

In one smooth motion, John brought his free hand around to grasp the back of Sherlock’s head, pulling until Sherlock was forced to stare up at him. John was rather gratified to see that the detective’s pupils were blown so wide there was only a thin band of blue ringing the black. Smiling, John began tracing the shell of Sherlock’s ear with the gun, trailing it down the side of his cheek before coming to rest on his cupid’s bow lips.

“Open –” John started to say, but was cut short as Sherlock began mouthing the gun, licking his way around the barrel as John watched, enraptured. The detective chose that moment to hollow his cheeks as he sucked in earnest, his eyes flicking up to meet John’s, wringing an unbidden moan from the doctor.

Wondering how far he could push this, John pushed the gun deeper into Sherlock’s mouth and down his throat until he gagged, tears welling up at the corners of his eyes as he struggled to breathe, before John relented and pulled the gun back to give Sherlock some reprieve. He gave it three seconds before pushing the gun back down Sherlock’s throat, taking no heed of the detective’s inability to breathe, keeping it up until he felt Sherlock force his throat to relax and the gun was met with less resistance. He set a punishing rhythm as he began fucking Sherlock’s throat with the gun, admiring the way the tears slid down the detective’s angular cheekbones, the way his gaze on John never wavered even with the brutal assault on his throat.

A glance down the length of Sherlock’s body told John all he needed to know. “Still getting off on this, you slut?” he said wryly, “I have to hand it to you – it is pretty hard to find a fitting punishment for someone who gets off on this kind of thing.”

Still keeping up the unrelenting rhythm of the gun, John raised a foot and pressed it down, hard, against Sherlock’s crotch. The detective simply moaned, lips still wrapped around the gun’s barrel, and canted his hips towards John’s foot, desperate for any kind of friction against his cock.

“My, you are a dirty thing, aren’t you?” John said appraisingly, taking his foot away and chuckling as Sherlock’s hips unconsciously chased after it. “Don’t worry, you’ll get some once you’ve put your mouth to better use than insulting people left and right.”

There was a flicker of irritation in Sherlock’s eyes as he gazed pointedly at the gun John was now lazily fucking into his mouth.

“Oh, come now, Sherlock,” John sighed, “I don’t mean that.” He withdrew the gun as he said so, smirking when Sherlock followed, seemingly reluctant to part with the Sig.

“Have you figured out what I want now?” he asked, returning the now thoroughly saliva-coated gun to Sherlock’s temple.

Licking his lips, Sherlock leaned forwards, nosing John’s zipper apart to get at John’s cock. His progress was deterred when John yanked him back by the hair, causing him to wince.

“Did I give you permission, Sherlock, hm?” said John, annoyance colouring his tone. “Really, you can be incredibly dense sometimes.”

“Permission to –” Sherlock cleared his throat, voice hoarse from the abuse it had taken, “Permission to suck your cock, sir?”

John had barely nodded before Sherlock’s lips were on him, mouthing his cock through his the thin cotton of his boxers. John groaned at the contact and pulled back long enough to hastily shove his pants and boxers down, freeing his erection. As soon as it was free Sherlock all but fell on his cock, mouthing at the head and licking before letting his cock slide in until it hit the back of Sherlock’s throat.

“Fuck,” John said, exhaling shakily as he twisted his hand in Sherlock’s curls as a handhold and began fucking into the tight heat surrounding his cock. Sherlock moaned around his length, a deep, throaty rumble that sent vibrations along his cock, and sucked harder, doing something with his tongue that almost had John collapsing on the spot, although he still managed to maintain a relatively steady grip on the gun.

It wasn’t long before John was coming, his grip on Sherlock’s hair tightening until it was sure to hurt, as starbursts of light danced across his field of vision with the intensity of his orgasm. Sherlock swallowed without complaint, keeping up the suction until John was spent, before letting John’s cock slip free.

Content in the sated afterglow of his orgasm, it took John perhaps three seconds longer than it would have to process the sounds of something clattering to the floor and a zipper being tugged down. He glanced down to find his belt lying on the floor besides Sherlock, who had apparently freed himself in order to shove a hand down his trousers and was now jerking himself off where he knelt.

Throwing the gun onto the sofa behind him and kneeling down opposite the detective, John impatiently shoved Sherlock’s hand aside, reaching for his cock and smearing the precome beading from the tip over his length as he jerked him off, his hand forming a fist as he let the detective fuck his fist. Sherlock came silently, a bitten-off cry on his lips as he came in John’s fist. 

John held him afterwards, the two of them kneeling on the carpeted floor in front of the sofa.

“I think I see the appeal now,” Sherlock murmured sleepily against John’s shoulder, where his head was resting.

“The appeal?” John asked, raising an inquiring eyebrow.

“In role-playing,” the detective elaborated, before pushing himself upright and leaning forward to plant a chaste kiss on John’s lips. “I see now why you told me to make up insults about anyone I wanted to for the past week. I – thank you, John.”

John smiled softly, before tangling his fingers in the hair at the nape of Sherlock’s neck and pulling him down for another, deeper kiss, his hand smoothing gently down the detective’s curls in apology for the rough treatment earlier. “Well, you did say you liked it rough.”

Sherlock made a non-commital ‘hmmpf’, arching his neck to lean into John’s touch. “The gun – that was a nice touch. Pity it wasn’t actually loaded, though.”

“You could tell?” John asked, caught momentarily off-guard.

Sherlock snorted. “You’re John Watson. There’s no way in hell you’d actually point a loaded firearm at your boyfriend.”

“Fair enough,” John grinned, reaching behind him to pull on the Sig’s trigger. It clicked on an empty chamber. “But keep talking like that and I’ll have to teach you another lesson.”

Sherlock responded by grabbing a fistful of John’s shirt and bringing their mouths together in a searing kiss. When they finally broke apart for air, the detective smiled an absolutely sinful smile.

“I can’t wait.”


End file.
